


She's Got the Sunshine

by icespyders



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Love Confessions, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, hqwinterhols2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icespyders/pseuds/icespyders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's lighter than her laughter and brighter than the stars in her hair. She's the warm answer to frostbitten winters, but Kiyoko just can't reach out far enough to take her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Got the Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maesilju](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maesilju/gifts).



> hello there! i'm so excited to finally share this - writing for you was wonderful, your prompts gave me enough to go on but i never once felt boxed in and the fic really flourished over these last 8 weeks. i hope it's as fun to read as it was to write!!  
> (BONUS: obviously this is focused on kiyoyachi but just for fun i wrote in cameos for all the characters you requested; two are prominent and obvious but the others are unnamed and simply pass through, but hopefully you'll be able to guess who they are!)

The little star barrettes had been the first thing Kiyoko noticed, though in all fairness, that was only because the barrettes were closer to her eye level. That first day the stars were colored black, and every so often when they caught the light, they glittered.

The second thing Kiyoko had noticed was that the girl wearing the star barrettes paid in exact change, which was nothing less than a godsend.

Her name was Yachi and she always ordered a hot chocolate, nice and simple, unlike the complex coffee orders that Kiyoko all too often had to navigate her way through in her work as a barista at the Fresh Leaf. The coffeeshop had the dubious distinction of being the only one within a five mile radius of campus, turning it into a caffeine-powered perpetual motion machine. Kiyoko usually did her best not to pay too much attention to the people she met there; after all, they very rarely paid attention to her, except to complain. But Yachi became more familiar than her other regulars, and soon enough she started giving her first name with her order instead: Hitoka.

Kiyoko learned other tidbits like that when they made small talk over the front counter. Yachi got hot chocolate instead of coffee because caffeine made her more nervous, even though Kiyoko didn’t see how Yachi could be any more nervous. Yachi owned a complete rainbow of star barrettes and coordinated them with her outfits, always impeccable in palettes. Not too surprising, considering she studied art. Another detail for the ever-growing list. Yachi ran a study group for the benefit of two friends, who were aiming to pass every test in a semester for the first time in their lives. Kiyoko must have looked startled to hear that when Yachi told the story, because Yachi had started grinning sheepishly, as if she was doing her best not to laugh. Yachi liked the novelty holiday-themed desserts the coffeeshop offered and got especially excited over a giant pumpkin-shaped sugar cookie around Halloween, but she never bought herself any sweets, except when Kiyoko encouraged her.

So absorbed in collecting more and more pieces of who Yachi was, Kiyoko barely noticed more and more of her heart being stolen away until it was much too late.

She considered this as she snapped a lid on Yachi Hitoka’s usual hot chocolate order, eyes trained on the festive - and, quite frankly, enormous - sugar cookie warming up in the tiny countertop oven. Everyone liked warm cookies, right? Right. This particular cookie was shaped to look like a pair of mittens and covered in red frosting. If she kind of squinted while looking at it, it almost resembled a heart.

Kiyoko knew that she was hopeless, and knowing that wasn’t really much comfort. But this was, unfortunately, as brave as she could be at the moment. She hated these feelings, all the swooping in her gut and the anxious pinpricks that rushed up her neck when Yachi was around. Honestly, it was just plain sad. Since when was she too coquettish to make conversation?

But when she glanced back at Yachi, only for a split second, not long enough for anyone to notice, Kiyoko decided that, hopeless or not, it would all be worth it if she could make Yachi smile. She was always so careful, so cautious, like the world could shatter around her at any moment, but Kiyoko caught smiles here and there, little bursts of laughter, and it reminded her of that moment the sun peeks out from behind the clouds after a rainstorm.

The oven buzzed and brought her back to her senses.

“For you,” Kiyoko said, smiling as she handed over Yachi’s order. The infectious scent of warm sugar wafted between them, hanging heavy in the air. Yachi inspected the cookie quizzically and Kiyoko held her breath.

Finally, Yachi shook her head. “No, it’s not…I mean, it smells fantastic, but it’s not mine,” she said haltingly.

“Take it,” Kiyoko insisted. “I saw you looking at them. They’re cute, aren’t they?”

“Well, yes, but…” Yachi’s face went bright pink and she started stumbling over her words; Kiyoko’s heart was doing somersaults now. “But I didn’t…I can’t take this, I didn’t pay for it,” she went on, shaking her head frantically. The stars in her hair were ice blue today and they quivered as she moved, catching the soft lights of the coffeeshop.

It was such a small kindness, and yet Yachi was so overwhelmed. Kiyoko pushed the cocoa and the cookie still farther across the counter, hands hovering on both. “Consider it a thank-you,” she said, and then quickly added on, “For being such a loyal customer.” This wasn’t a lie, really, but Kiyoko was significantly more grateful for Yachi’s general presence on the planet than her patronage at the Fresh Leaf.

“I really shouldn’t…I can’t…you…” Yachi tried, but she only wavered for a moment longer, voice eventually fading out into silence. In an instant, a look of intense determination crossed her face, replacing her flustered frown. Without another word, she stuffed a wad of bills and loose change into the tip jar - surely far more than the order was worth, but Kiyoko was struck speechless and couldn’t point that out - and snapped into a bow so low she almost disappeared under the counter. “Thank you very much!” she burst out before grabbing the order and rushing out of the shop, cheeks still vividly pink.

Their fingertips had touched over the cookie, Kiyoko realized, and she spent a long moment staring at her calloused hands splayed out on the counter. There was color blooming on her own face now too, probably an equal match for Yachi’s. Or maybe not quite. Hers had been a very distinct flush, after all.

Briefly, Kiyoko wondered if Yachi was aware of the effect she had on people. She was so wonderful, so charming, so _vibrant_ , and Kiyoko only knew her through tiny exchanges like this. What would it be like, she wondered, to truly spend time with her? To walk the length of campus together, have an afternoon to themselves, talk for hours hand in hand...?

A piercing voice shot right through her haze, almost sing-song: “That’s coming out of your paycheck, Shimizu!”

She pursed her lips and deigned to glance sidelong at the disruption. Really, she should have expected this; the coffeeshop manager Oikawa was practically telepathic. He didn’t even have to pry to somehow know everyone’s business.

At the moment he looked delighted, which was always a bad sign for anyone in the immediate vicinity. “Understood,” she answered quietly, staring at the keys on her register with intense focus, only watching Oikawa in her peripheral vision. Maybe he’d get bored and leave her alone if she played it cool.

Scratch that; Oikawa had clasped his hands over his heart at her response. Kiyoko wondered if it’d be worth losing her job if she got to slam his fingers into the cash drawer first. “Oh, and she even admits to it!” he crowed, voice so sickly sweet it could only be condescending. She hated how much she needed this job. “Although, honestly, there’s no point denying it at this stage. It’s so obvious even Iwa-chan can see it. Isn’t it?” he called over his shoulder.

Kiyoko chanced a glance at a far more tolerable co-worker of hers, who looked utterly disinterested in the proceedings. As far as she knew, Iwaizumi’s primary responsibility at the Fresh Leaf was stopping Oikawa from being himself. Not that she was complaining; someone had to do it. “Leave her alone,” Iwaizumi replied, immediately promoting himself to most tolerable co-worker.

“You’re no fun,” Oikawa complained.

“Don’t you have any work to do?” Iwaizumi asked. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you working. What are you supposed to do here again?”

“Of course I’m working!” Oikawa retorted, bristling. “I’m _managing_.”

“Managing,” Iwaizumi repeated flatly, rolling his eyes.

“Yes! Managing poor Shimizu’s love life, because clearly she needs the assistance,” he explained, reaching out to pat Kiyoko’s arm in some false show of sympathy; she edged out of his reach with a grimace.

“Manage your shitty personality first,” Iwaizumi suggested.

Oikawa scowled at him but otherwise paid no heed. “Now, Shimizu, you’re lucky to have your good looks because your flirting technique is just awful. You’ll never get anything accomplished like this,” he started, clicking his tongue and shaking his head as if it truly pained him to say so.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Kiyoko answered, tone clipped. She could probably take him in a fight if she had to. She was stronger than she looked and Oikawa was always complaining about his bad knee, anyway. If she moved fast he wouldn’t even see it coming. But that was probably what he wanted, to get a rise out of her. Besides, it would reflect badly on her if she punched a guy wearing glasses. She lifted her eyes from the register to instead start counting the floor tiles, refusing to take the bait.

“Of course you do. You’ve fallen hard for that tiny blonde girl who’s always in here. I already told you it’s completely obvious,” Oikawa went on. Why wouldn’t he stop talking? Didn’t he ever get tired of it? “You won’t win her over playing it coy like that. You’re only treading water here.” For a moment, Kiyoko considered approaching Yachi with an Oikawa-approved technique. The thought was repulsive. She had counted up to sixty-three floor tiles and leaned a bit further over her register to count more. “No, Shimizu, you have to woo her properly, or she’ll never notice you.”

“ _Woo her_ ,” Iwaizumi repeated distastefully. “You’re so fucking weird. Who even says that?”

“Quit interrupting me!” The usual pleasant affectation Oikawa had when he spoke was starting to wear thin. Kiyoko sensed an imminent meltdown.

“What the hell do you even know about wooing girls?” Iwaizumi pressed on.

“I know much more than either of you,” Oikawa insisted haughtily. Eighty-eight floor tiles. Kiyoko wondered if the tiled floors made Oikawa’s voice seem shriller or if he always sounded like this.

Iwaizumi scoffed at that and Kiyoko could tell Oikawa wasn’t fully paying attention to her anymore. “You had one girlfriend in high school for, what? Two weeks? A month?”

“More than one!”

“If it was less than a week it doesn’t count.”

“Says you.”

“Says everyone with two brain cells to rub together, but maybe you’ve finally lost all yours.”

“So _rude_! And when I’m just trying to help--”

Their bickering went on behind her but Kiyoko was preoccupied with something interrupting the tile pattern: a dark oversized portfolio bag. It was easy to recognize; Kiyoko saw countless students on campus carrying bags like it around all the time. She stretched over her register still further to grab it by the handle, ignored by customers and co-workers alike.

The bag was stuffed with sketchbooks, markers and pens, huge sheets of paper covered in figure drawings and the like, a binder with a class schedule behind the laminated cover. In short, everything critical to any art student, things they couldn’t work without.

And the name neatly printed on the class schedule was Yachi Hitoka.

Kiyoko’s breath caught in her chest as she realized what must have happened; she’d distracted Yachi earlier, completely threw her off by treating her, and she’d left the shop in such a rush afterward she forgot her portfolio. She had to be worried out of her mind, especially considering how anxious Yachi already was, even when there wasn’t anything wrong.

All Kiyoko could think was that she had to do something to help. Anything.

Brow furrowed, she examined the schedule, struggling not to get distracted by the loose pages of sketches; they were done with such a precise hand, really exquisite in form, and she was tempted to flip through the sketchbooks too - no. No, focus. She forced her eyes to the schedule, which was entirely too pretty, bordered by a lattice design and color-coded to boot. It cheerfully informed her that Yachi had class within the next half hour on the opposite end of campus.

“I’ll… I’ll be right back,” Kiyoko said, glancing vaguely over her shoulder at her co-workers. She held the portfolio tight, like it could escape at any moment, and left her register.

“You what?” Oikawa asked, gaping at her as she walked away.

“Ten minutes, that’s all,” Kiyoko promised, even though that was probably a lie.

“Where?” he questioned, but Kiyoko waved him off and he seemed too stunned to do anything else.

“Shimizu, you don’t even have a jacket, it’s freezing,” Iwaizumi called, but she had already flung open the door, sending the bell above it jingling cheerfully.

The early winter chill hit her bare skin like a flurry of knives but she ignored it, weaving fast through crowds of students, still wearing her apron from the shop. She glanced at her watch - she had time, but not much. The faster she walked, the more the wind bit at her nose and fingers, but she kept going anyway, barely even pausing when her hair blew into her mouth.

Yachi had to have noticed what she’d lost by now, Kiyoko knew, and felt a pang in her heart thinking about it. So this was what happened when she tried to be nice. Maybe she really was terrible flirt. She shivered but couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or just from considering the possibility of Oikawa being right about something.

Finally, the building Yachi’s class was in loomed at the end of her path, surrounded by leafless trees. Almost there. Just a little bit faster and she’d make it in time. The walkways were so crowded, producing a constant stream of obstacles: she almost collided with a kid who refused to raise his eyes from his 3DS, sidestepped two boys racing each other someplace and yelling all the while, got briefly distracted by some gangly guy trying to coax a cat out of a tree, and kept her eyes down around others she recognized as one-time customers. Dimly, she realized she was out of breath. She hadn’t even noticed she was running until she forced herself to a stop. Oh well. At least it was cold enough that she wasn’t completely drenched in sweat.

Kiyoko rifled through the portfolio again, studying the schedule with a frown. She’d never been in this building before, how could she possibly find Yachi? She took another look at her watch and huffed - time was running short and she couldn’t think straight.

The front doors burst open, jolting Kiyoko from her thoughts. “…no, I don’t know! Yes, I left home with it…but I didn’t really go anywhere, and I’m… _everything_ was in there!”

There was Yachi, pacing frantically outside the doors and wailing into her phone. Kiyoko could have cheered out of pure relief, if not for the fact that Yachi looked like she was about to drop dead from stress. With a sigh, Kiyoko ordered her tired limbs forward. Really, she should know better than to run without stretching first by now. Ahead of her, Yachi had stopped pacing, now stock-still, conversation quieter and far more morose. Gently, she laid a hand on Yachi’s shoulder. “Hitoka?”

Yachi shrieked in surprise and fumbled with her phone as she spun around, clapping a hand over her mouth the minute she saw who it was. “Kiyoko?” she squeaked out from behind her fingers. “What are you doing here?”

“I found something of yours,” Kiyoko replied, holding out the portfolio.

Yachi’s eyes bulged and she hung up her phone. “You…I…but…” she tried.

Kiyoko handed it over, smiling and trying not to get too distracted by the feeling of their hands touching again. “You left it at the Fresh Leaf earlier. I figured you’d want it back.”

“Oh.” Yachi nodded, staring at the bag reverently before slowly raising her gaze to Kiyoko, one foot scuffing the ground over and over. “You went so far out of your way for me?” she asked, plainly awe-struck.

Kiyoko’s face flooded with color yet again, which would have been a welcome relief from the cold if it wasn’t so embarrassing. “It wasn’t any trouble,” she insisted, even though she was still struggling to catch her breath. She didn’t sound particularly convincing. “I was on break anyway.” As though she were being punished for lying, she shivered again and sneezed. “Excuse me.”

“You must be so cold!” Yachi cried, staring at the goosebumps on Kiyoko’s bare arms. As she spoke she started unbuttoning her oversize cardigan; Kiyoko flushed even worse and determinedly stared away. “Here. You’ll get sick otherwise.”

If Kiyoko had been a woman of stronger will, she might have refused. It wasn’t as if she often relied on the help of others; in fact, she much preferred taking care of herself. But she couldn’t say no to Yachi’s care or her wide, worried eyes. Besides, Kiyoko had a funny feeling this could turn into another display of stubborn kindness. Furthermore, it was Yachi’s cardigan, bright yellow like a sunflower in bloom, and when she shrugged it on, she caught a whiff of flowery shampoo and the cloying aroma of melting sugar from the coffeeshop. Immediately, warmth flooded her from head to toes, but it probably had little to do with her actual body temperature. “You’re too kind,” she murmured at her shoes.

“ _Me_?” Yachi asked incredulously. “You just saved my life bringing back my portfolio! And you’re always so nice besides that. You’re one of the kindest people I know.” Her hand flew to her mouth again, as if she thought she’d said too much. Kiyoko took the lull of silence to wonder if Yachi’s hair smelled of flowers as much as her sweater did.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to lose your drawings when they’re so good,” Kiyoko replied shyly, nodding to the portfolio. “You never mentioned you were this talented.”

Yachi let out a surprised little squeak again. “I don’t…I’m not…I mean, it’s really not…” she sputtered; hesitantly, she met Kiyoko’s eyes. “You think so?” she asked, her expression caught somewhere between pride and uncertainty.

“Yes. Very much so.” Kiyoko fussed with her glasses and quickly added on, “I mean, I wasn’t snooping or anything, I didn’t see much, but it was enough. I don’t have much of an eye for art, but even I can see you’re good.”

“Anyone can be an artist, Kiyoko. I truly believe that,” Yachi asserted, beaming at her with her eyes lit up. Her smile was enough to make anyone weak at the knees. Or maybe Kiyoko was just shivering again.

She chanced a small grin back. “Anyone with the time, I suppose,” she mused. “But too much of my free time is tied up by volleyball, so not me.”

The smile faded from Yachi’s face and her eyebrows knitted themselves together. “You play volleyball?” she asked.

Kiyoko shrugged. “I warned you I didn’t have an eye for art,” she joked. “I know, I know, people don’t usually take me for the type.” Meaning, of course, that most people didn’t presume pretty girls with glasses had any interest in sports, much less the desire to play. But Kiyoko had long since decided that her spiking calluses and bruises from diving for receives had their own kind of beauty. And nothing compared to the feeling of scoring the match point.

But Kiyoko’s answer didn’t seem to ease Yachi’s nerves; her hands had tightened on her portfolio and she still looked so tense. “You mean here? At school?” she questioned. When Kiyoko nodded, Yachi started gnawing at her lip, and then groaned. “You’re the ace on the girls’ team, aren’t you?”

Kiyoko tried not to look too pleased; usually she introduced herself as a wing spiker, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit to liking the unofficial title of ace better. “I suppose people say I am,” she demurred, but then caught herself. She hadn’t ever told Yachi this, had she? “Wait, how do you know that?”

Yachi didn’t reply, preoccupied muttering frantically to herself and digging through her portfolio. She started flipping through one of her sketchbooks, pausing on one page and pursing her lips. Finally, with one last furtive glance at Kiyoko, she exhaled loud and handed her the book. “Please don’t think I’m weird!” she burst out miserably, falling into another perfect bow.

“Oh,” was all Kiyoko breathed out in response, because the pages were covered with sketches, sketches of a girl with flowing dark hair reaching for receives, leaping up to block, rising like a bird in flight to spike, wearing a jersey emblazoned with the number eight, the same number Kiyoko’s real jersey bore. They were all her, every figure. Her face was never quite in focus on the page, but she recognized herself in other details: the jersey number, the way her hair moved, the long kneepads she favored for her games, the forms her body took, the lines of her muscles taut live wires under the gym lights…

Yachi must have taken the silence as something other than pure astonishment, because she started explaining herself in a rush. “I didn’t know it was you! I mean, you look so different out there, you know, from far away, and you don’t wear your glasses and your hair’s up and you move so _fast_ , but I swear I wasn’t stalking you or anything, I just saw one of your games by mistake! My friends from my study group, they play on the boys’ team, I was supposed to go see them but I went to the wrong gym and ended up at your game instead, and I got, well…” Kiyoko’s eyes again traced the delicate precision of the sketches, imagined them blooming from Yachi’s hands, considered how carefully she looked over every curve. “…distracted.”

“You make me look so elegant,” Kiyoko answered softly, flipping the page to find even more volleyball sketches.

“You _are_ elegant,” Yachi said immediately. “I mean…I didn’t make you look one way or another. You inspired me.” She tugged at the hem of her shirt, still looking mortified. “I’m sorry. You’re supposed to ask before you sketch someone that much, I think. And it’s weird because, you know, I _know_ you, and now you probably think I’m creepy, and you’re always so nice--”

“Hitoka.” Yachi quit talking and stared up at the interruption. “They’re beautiful drawings. I feel…” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, struggling to find enough praise to express how she felt. “I’m honored to have inspired you.”

One or the other of them must have stepped closer, Kiyoko decided, because all of a sudden they were in their own world, comprised of nothing but each other and the mere inches of ground between them.

Yachi’s phone started chirping out an alarm and she yelped. “I’m late!” She seized the sketchbook back and started gathering her things in a rush.

“Do you want your sweater back?” Kiyoko asked, already tugging it off and exposing herself to the cold again.

“No, no! You have to walk all the way back to work. I’ll be fine without it, and it’s the least I can do,” Yachi admonished quickly. “Thank you again. For my portfolio, and for earlier. The cookie was wonderful.”

With that, she was going to disappear into the building, leaving Kiyoko with nothing but her sweater and the cadences of her voice left echoing in her absence. _Be brave_ , she urged herself, nerves writhing in the pit of her stomach. “Wait!” she called. Yachi turned back, silhouetted by the lights from inside and framed perfectly in the open doorway; suddenly Kiyoko wished she was an artist after all so she could capture the moment on paper forever.

“Yes?” Yachi asked. The winter wind was carrying her hair aloft and her barrettes were twinkling again.

“Are you...are you busy after class?” Kiyoko asked. She’d never been one to blush much or trip over her words, yet now it seemed to be all she could do. She tugged Yachi’s sweater sleeves over her fingers, heart racing as she watched Yachi shake her head no. “Okay. Well, you should come see me at the Fresh Leaf once you’re done. I’ll be done with work by then.” Yachi walked back over to her and there were dozens of questions written all over her face. Kiyoko almost felt like her throat was closing up. “I’ll…I can give you your sweater back,” she tacked on pathetically, her mind in a total state of panic.

“Oh! Oh, right. Of course. That’s nice of you,” Yachi answered, her expression screaming out nothing but disappointment and Kiyoko’s head was spinning now, because wait, hold on, she was _disappointed_? What for? Unless...

_Be brave, be brave,_ she scolded herself. “And…” she started again, hands balled into fists to vent her nerves. “And…I was wondering if you. Well. Wanted to take a walk with me. So we could spend some time together.” Yachi’s eyes went wide again and Kiyoko curled her freezing toes in her shoes, forcing herself to keep talking. “I never get to see you for long in the shop, but I really like talking to you, Hitoka.” She hesitated one moment longer and then reached out to clasp Yachi’s free hand between her own. There. That was as brave as she could be. Not perfect, but certainly better than nothing.

Yachi met her eyes for a long, long minute without either drawing back or moving forward and Kiyoko’s nerves mutated into roaring white noise crowding her head. But Yachi’s voice, hushed to a whisper, still broke through: “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes,” Kiyoko answered fast before she had a chance to lie. “Yes, I am.”

“But…!” Yachi objected, and Kiyoko’s nerves roared still louder, practically burning her from underneath her skin.

“It’s alright. I understand if you don’t want to,” she started, but Yachi dropped her portfolio and clasped her hands back, a nervous laugh tumbling past her lips.

“Of course I want to!” she beamed, so plainly and beautifully delighted that it was almost unreal. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met!” The nerves exploded into fireworks, butterflies, all this lovely fluttering; Yachi wasn’t the first person to compliment her looks, but she was far and away the most sincere. “I mean, I can’t even believe you’d be interested in me, I’m so ordinary and you’re, well, _you_.”

“Don’t say that. You’re hardly ordinary,” Kiyoko insisted, holding Yachi’s hands tight. The phone alarm went off again but it did little to break the warmth floating soft between them, just background noise in their own pocket of the universe. “You’re very late for class,” she finally observed.

“I know. Isn’t your break at work up by now?” Yachi asked.

“I’m not actually on break. I left. My manager must be tearing his perfect hair out,” Kiyoko admitted.

“What? Don’t get fired because of me!” Yachi cried out, giving her hands one last squeeze before letting go. “Oh no, I really am late…but I’ll see you soon, Kiyoko!” She called the farewell over her shoulder as she started running to class, flinging the front door open wildly and disappearing down the hall.

The long walk back to the Fresh Leaf passed in a happy haze. Kiyoko wore Yachi’s sweater for the rest of her shift - through the lines of customers and complex orders, through the huffy lecture from Oikawa about her sudden departure, through every second she counted down, and she really did count them, until she got off work.

Later, as evening fell on campus and the lanterns along the walkways lit up, she interlocked her fingers with Yachi’s and walked her down the quietest paths between the buildings. She laughed at Yachi’s stories about her class, how her professor had passionately rambled about the composition of a single painted flower for fifteen minutes straight, and it wasn’t the first time, either. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or wince at Yachi’s tales about her friends, one of whom had failed a test that week because he’d gotten too convinced that every answer couldn’t possibly be “B,” even though they were, in fact, the correct ones.

They shared another huge mitten cookie; Kiyoko, blushing profusely, explained why she’d chosen it, how it almost looked like a heart, but Yachi found it terribly romantic and it didn’t seem so embarrassing then. They shared hot chocolate too and Yachi dabbed off whipped cream from Kiyoko’s lip with intense focus, and her face was even prettier up close.

And Kiyoko already knew that Yachi’s cardigan smelled like wildflowers, but soon learned, for the first time, that her lips tasted like sugar and fondant, and her smile bloomed even sweeter than that under the lamplight, under the night sky, under the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> (OTHER BONUS: i put together an 8tracks with music i played while writing/editing and i really wanna share it with you as a tiny extra gift but my 8tracks username is the same as my ao3 lmao...to avoid ruining the surprise i'll just pop the link up later)  
> EDIT: [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/icespyders/you-re-something-out-of-a-dream)!


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